


There is Nothing Left

by Morning66



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Brothers, Canonical Character Death, Family, Gen, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-14 19:22:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28925736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morning66/pseuds/Morning66
Summary: The Black heir is dead, they say. It comes through whispers and back channels, through spies that only Dumbledore knows they have. The Black heir is dead and there is nothing left.Reg, Reggie, Regulus. His little fucking brother.
Relationships: Regulus Black & Sirius Black, Sirius Black & James Potter
Comments: 6
Kudos: 60





	There is Nothing Left

**Author's Note:**

> Hi!!! =D
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Warnings: Death (of Regulus), Swearing

The Black heir is dead, they say. It comes through whispers and back channels, through spies that only Dumbledore knows they have. The Black heir is dead and there is nothing left.

For a second, Sirius thinks they mean him. It’s stupid, really, because to his family he was already dead. He hasn’t been the Black heir since he was sixteen, but old habits die hard, die kicking and screaming, he supposes. Then, after a second, he realizes it must have been Regulus.

Reg, Reggie, Regulus. His fucking little brother.

He feels like puking then, throwing up his guts and every organ in his body onto the cement floor. He can’t, though. He’s spent years trying to prove himself, prove that he’s not Dark, that he renounces everything he was raised to be. Prove that he is more than the blood running through his veins, thick and Dark and Black.

To show sadness now would be a step backwards.

Around him, Gideon Prewet laughs and Benjy Fenwick murmurs, “Serves the lot of them right. Dark bastards.”

Sirius forces up a smile that feels more like a grimace. He pictures Regulus as a child, six years old and coming to him in the middle of the night, scared of a monster under his bed. “Got that right, Fenwick,” he says and claps Benjy on the back.

Watching business go on as usual around him, Sirius wonders how Regulus died. In service of the Dark Lord, certainly—it’s not like he’d die in a fucking automobile accident or something. Was it some auror, trigger happy with the Unforgivables that the ministry lets slide? Someone in the Order? Whoever it was, Regulus probably deserved it.

That doesn’t make Sirius feel any less sick.

****

Later, James finds him on the roof of the building they’ve got a flat in, wedged in by an old water tank and fingering a cigarette. It’s an out of the way spot, the kind of spot that only James, James who knows every crease in his hand, could find. It’s not really safe to be up here, not with war going on. They’ve got the flat, all two bedrooms, one bathroom, and one kitchen/living room/dining room warded, but there’s nothing once you leave those boundaries.

James doesn’t say anything about that. Instead, he wedges himself in beside Sirius, their shoulders pressing together. “Can I have a fag?” James asks, even though he just about never smokes because Lily hates the smell.

Sirius hands him one silently and neither of them speak for several minutes. 

Finally, James shifts, turns so their eyes meet. “They reckon Voldemort killed him, that’s what I heard. He was trying to get away or something.”

“Seriously?”

James nods solemnly.

“Bloody Hell,” Sirius murmurs. “Fucking idiot. Couldn’t even be a fucking Death Eater right. Coward.”

It comes harsher than he means it, harsher because of the hurt simmering under the surface. James doesn’t call him out, instead stubbing his cigarette out against the roof and putting an arm around Sirius’s shoulders.

Sirius sinks into his best friend. “Merlin, Prongs.”

They sit up there in silence for an indeterminate amount of time, watching as night descends. It’s not the sunsets of Hogwarts, but the gray fading to black of smog filled London. When it finally gets too cold, Sirius drags them both up, huffing out frozen breaths that curl like whisps of smoke. He pitches his stubbed out fag over the edge of the building, watching it fall and fall and wonders if death is like falling and falling and never landing.

He’s still staring over when James grabs his arm, pulls him back with concerned eyes.

“Sorry,” Sirius says.

James draws him in with another tug. “S’okay, Pads,” he pushes his hair up. “C’mon, let’s go see if Lily will let us get takeaway.”

****

Sirius doesn’t go to the funeral.

James offers up the cloak for that purpose, but Sirius shakes him off. He has no desire to see his mother, surely no saner after the loss of her husband and (only) son, no desire to see Bellatrix, manic glee in her eyes even after the loss of their own, no desire to see Narcissa and dearest Lucius, the perfect pureblood match his mother always wanted for him.

Sirius would love it if he never had to see the lot of them again.

(Though, he’s sure he does see some of them at night, hidden under masks and cloaks like the cowards they are. He’s spent more time than he’d like to admit watching the Death Eaters, studying their movements—the people who raised him turned hooded monsters.)

Instead, he goes at at night, after the dirt has already been filled in. James comes with him because according to him, no way is he letting Sirius go traipsing around a cemetery at night during a war. Sirius doesn’t point out that their missions are regularly much more dangerous because James has always been a stubborn bugger when he wants to be.

The grave is in the southern part of the cemetery all the purebloods use, intermixed with thousands of Blacks that have come before. Sirius recognizes their names from that fucking tree and from long ago genealogy lessons. He doesn’t give his father’s grave a second glance, but stops in front of his brother’s.

_Regulus Arcturus Black_

_Beloved Son and Soldier_

_1961 - 1979_

Sirius barks out a laugh. “Like my parents ever loved anything,” he says. “I honestly think they weren’t capable of love.”

James’s hand finds its way to his shoulder.

Sirius pulls out his wand and aims it for the grave. The wind whistles in the trees, but all else is silent.

“Sirius,” James whispers.

“I’m not going to ruin it, Prongs,” Sirius murmurs, then whispers a Latin incantation and the words start to change until the engraving says _Beloved Son and Brother._

“Fixed it,” he says, voice shaking a bit. He pauses and slips his wand back into the pocket of his jeans. “He was the last one the lot I actually cared about. I did love him. I never said it, but I did.”

If James notices the tears in his eyes, he’s kind enough not to mention it as they walk out, arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders.


End file.
